


Watson's Woes 2016 JWP fics

by dogandmonkeyshow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-19 12:38:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7361812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogandmonkeyshow/pseuds/dogandmonkeyshow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of ficlets written in July 2016 in response to daily writing prompts for the watsons_woes LJ community. Each ficlet will be posted as a chapter here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bruise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John refused to believe that Science > Sport.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for prompt #1: "'Tis but a scratch".

The moment he hit the ground, John knew he was well and truly fucked. 

By the time the rest of the players had scrambled to their feet, Doctor Watson had diagnosed a fractured ulna, with a possibly fractured radius to form a complete set. He was surprised to discover that something as mundane as a broken arm hurt more than being shot, but he'd long known that life was full of surprises. Rolling over without passing out from the nuclear-grade agony radiating from his forearm was a greater challenge than he would have suspected.

“You okay, Johnno?” Steve asked, backing away as he glanced over his shoulder to the ruck going on in the midfield, obviously eager to chase after the pack.

“Yeah, go, go—” John waved his teammate off with his unbroken arm; once the man's back was turned, John grit his teeth and managed to lurch his way to his feet and shuffle to the sidelines.

“You okay, John?” Steve's girlfriend, Kate, asked as John winced past and picked up his bag.

“Yeah, fine. I've got to go.” He turned to watch he continuing play on the field. “With Gary off, they're evenly matched, now, anyway.”

“Okay. See you next week,” she said, turning to watch the match.

When John was seated behind the wheel of the car, he realised he was going to have to shift with a broken arm. “Fucking hell,” he muttered at the pain roaring up his arm as he grasped the wheel.

Five minutes later, he was idling in traffic as his phone pinged. 

_Baker Street. Need help w. an experiment. SH_

“Shit.” _Can't_

_Science > sport. SH_

“Jesus Christ.” John turned east at the next intersection and headed for Baker Street.

After parking illegally in Mr Chatterjee's loading zone, John managed to sidle out of the car without banging his now-useless left arm against anything. By the time he'd circumnavigated the block and was mounting the stairs to Sherlock's flat he'd devised a plan: 1) keep his hand in his jacket pocket to immobilize his arm; 2) keep his jacket on at all times, even if Sherlock had the heat up to 80 degrees, as usual; and 3) get the hell out of there and to an A&E as soon as possible.

Of course, John's plan was thrown out the window the moment Sherlock laid eyes on him. Peering at John through his safety goggles, he strode out of the kitchen, across the flat, and poked a bony finger into John's left arm, less than half an inch above the break.

“Fuck!” John couldn't stop himself yelling.

“You broke your arm. Maybe that will finally convince you what an asinine waste of time sport is,” Sherlock replied as he ripped his goggles off.

“Fuck off. And it's fine; just a bruise.” John moved out of poking range.

“We're going to hospital.” Sherlock grabbed John's shoulder and steered him back towards the stairs.

“Yeah, brilliant. That _was_ where I was going when you ordered me here.”

Half an hour later, John sat in a crowded A&E waiting room, staring at screaming twin toddlers being ignored by their mother in favour of something obviously fascinating on her phone. The only thing that improved the situation—and then only a little—was the horrified revulsion on Sherlock's face. When John caught his friend's eye he couldn't help a hint of schadenfreude. “Next time I tell you it's nothing. You'll believe me, won't you?”

“Shut up, John,” Sherlock muttered as he retreated further into his Belstaff.

John made no effort whatsoever to repress the urge to laugh.


	2. A cat. Possibly.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was just a cardboard box. Probably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for 2016 JWP daily prompt: #3 A cardboard box: whether it contains human ears or nothing at all, include a cardboard box somewhere in your entry.

“What's that?” John pointed at the box on the kitchen table next to Sherlock's microscope.

“A box,” Sherlock replied, after flicking his eyes over from his slide tray to John's pointing finger.

“Yeah, I can see that. What's in it?”

“A cat. Possibly.” Sherlock resumed rifling through his slides. “Did you touch these?”

“No.” John resented his accusatory tone. “I've got no interest in catching—whatever it is you've got on those.”

Sherlock just made an uncharacteristically inelegant little _snorfle_ and returned to his slides. John decided coffee was in order and turned his attention elsewhere.

The next morning, to John's surprise, the box was in the same spot. He peered at it; there was no evidence he could see that it had been touched since the last time he'd noticed it.

“Don't touch the box,” Sherlock yelled from his bedroom, as if he could see through the intervening wall. John wondered if Sherlock had tapped into Mycroft's surveillance network and was now watching John in the kitchen. He knew he should be upset at that possibility, but after a year of living with Sherlock, accepted that it wasn't worth the bother.

On the morning of the second day after the box's arrival, John ascertained that Sherlock was most definitely _not_ in the flat, then ambled over to the kitchen, watching the box out of the corner of his eye in order to disguise his interest from anyone who might be watching.

As he walked past the kitchen table, John bent over to get a closer look at the box. A moment later his phone pinged.

_Leave the box alone. SH_

“Fuck!” John glanced around; for good measure he made a rude gesture to the air, as if warding off evil spirits.

The next day, John was relieved when he saw the box gone from the kitchen table; he was not thrilled to later see it on his desk next to his laptop. He'd meant to spend the morning writing a blog post on their most recent case, but knew he'd never be able to concentrate with The Cardboard Box hovering in his visual periphery.

“You didn't write up the case,” Sherlock said as they were watching telly that evening.

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Why do you care all of a sudden?”

“I don't.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“Just making conversation.”

“Yeah, because you're so known for your meaningless chit-chat,” John muttered, glancing out of the corner of his eye to The Cardboard Box, still perched next to his laptop, like a silent guard dog. When he turned his eye back to Sherlock he could tell the man had been watching him. John stomped off to his room. He felt a complete tit for doing so, but wasn't in the mood to deal with Sherlock at his Holmsiest.

The next morning, John found The Box in the bathroom. The following morning it was in the kitchen again, this time next to the coffee maker. It sat there, seemingly innocuous, three inches by three inches by three inches of self-satisfied disdain.

“Don't touch the box,” Sherlock said as he passed by on his way to the refrigerator. 

“Jesus!” John jumped; the man could be quiet as a cat. “I wasn't planning to.”

“Why are you so fascinated? It's only a box.”

“If it's just a box, why do I keep finding it everywhere I look?”

Sherlock chortled as he sniffed the carton of milk. “You're imagining things. Which is surprising; I never knew you had any imagination at all.”

John opened his mouth to fire off a snappy reply, then shut it with a clack of teeth. He turned on his heel and strode out of the flat. He needed to get to the clinic, and he was sure no one would complain when he showed up half an hour early.

When he returned that night, exhausted and cranky, John was very much not in the mood to deal with The Cardboard Box. So of course he found it on the nightstand next to his bed. Stuck to the lid was one of John's green post-it notes with “Do not touch the box” written in Sherlock's barely-legible scrawl.

“Oh, fuck me,” John muttered as he grabbed the box and tore the note off.

It was obviously empty. The box weighed no more than a small cardboard box. He shook it; there was no rattle or clatter of contents. John looked down at the silent tormenter in his hand, wondering why he couldn't force himself to just bloody well open it already.

He clomped down the stairs, intending to deposit the box on Sherlock's nightstand, when he saw the man sitting at his desk, typing on John's laptop. John walked up and held the box in front of him, waiting for Sherlock to acknowledge him. He waggled the box, but Sherlock continued to ignore him.

John opened the box.

It was empty, just as he'd deduced. “It's just a box.”

Now Sherlock deigned to look at him. “Yes. What were you expecting?”

“It's just a fucking box.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied in a sarcastic drawl. “Why are you upset?”

“I'm not upset!” 

John winced at Sherlock's cocked eyebrow. “God, you are such a dickhead,” he muttered as he smacked the box down on the desk and strode into the kitchen to get a drink. “I can't believe I killed a man for you!” he shouted back once he'd managed to come up with a response.

“I never asked you to!” Sherlock called back, completely ignoring the point, in John's view.

Tea made, John returned to the sitting room and watched Sherlock type, oblivious to John's scowl.

“Was it a test?”

“No.”

“Was it a joke?”

“No.”

“It was one of your stupid experiments, wasn't it?” John could tell by the very slight delay before Sherlock's “No,” that he'd hit the nail on the head.

“I'm not a lab rat.”

“No, of course not. A lab rat would have opened it the first time he saw it.”

John frowned. But he refused to concede the field again. “Stop experimenting on me.”

“All right.”

John blinked, twice. “Really? That's it? All I had to do—”

“Yes, John. All you had to do was ask.” 

~ + ~


	3. A pirate for Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock eavesdrops, and falls into a logical fallacy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for prompt #5: A False Moustache

“Pirate!” Sherlock shouted as he grabbed the battered tricorn hat out of the bottom of the dressing-up box and brandished it in Mycroft's face.

“Yes, pirate,” Mycroft replied in more sedate tones as he accepted the offering, while he continued to watch, concerned, as Sherlock resumed his rummaging, apparently seeking out the remaining elements of the costume.

A moment later he reappeared. “Sword!” he crowed, thrusting the wooden sword in the air. Mycroft swerved to avoid losing an eye in a probably accidental attempt at verisimilitude for his assigned role.

Digging through the old trunk, Sherlock had virtually crawled in, his search accompanied by sharp, animalistic noises that caused Mycroft to frown. Sherlock would be seven in two weeks, and Mycroft hoped his brother's behaviour was a conscious game of appearing to regress back to a toddler, rather than evidence of actually doing so.

Mycroft had read between the lines of mummy's letters during his first term at Marlborough: Sherlock had not coped at all well with Mycroft's disappearance to school. No matter how many times the situation had been explained to him, Sherlock had persisted in his tearful, shrieking demands that Mycroft be returned to him. And now that Mycroft was home for Christmas, Sherlock wouldn't let him out of his sight. After five days of experiencing this clinging and childish simulacrum of his brother, Mycroft still had no idea how to respond. 

Thankfully, his thoughts were dispelled by a cry of “Moustache!” from the trunk, as Sherlock clambered out and onto Mycroft's lap.

“For heaven's sake, Sherlock, you're not two years old anymore,” he grumbled as one of Sherlock's bony knees jammed into his pelvis while he plastered the horrible plastic moustache onto Mycroft's face. He could tell from the way one side of it rubbed up against the edge of his nose that it was crooked, but he left it.

“Wear it now, Mikey,” Sherlock commanded in more reassuringly normal tones, as he plonked the hat on Mycroft's head.

Mycroft chuckled. “Don't you want to be the pirate this time?”

“I'm getting one for Christmas.”

“What?” Mycroft wondered what had elicited that misconception.

“To replace you now that you've gone away. Redbeard. I heard mummy and daddy saying that's what they got me for Christmas and he's a famous pirate so I'm getting a pirate for Christmas.” 

The note of finality in his brother's voice brought a smile to Mycroft's face. “Ah, I see. A logical deduction. But where do you suppose they acquired this pirate?”

“Pirate shop, of course,” Sherlock replied, a familiar haughtiness creeping back into his voice. “They're keeping him in the garage until Christmas. I can always tell when mummy goes out to feed him because daddy tries to distract me so I won't see but I do anyway.”

“Well, we'll see day after tomorrow, won't we?”

Sherlock dropped down painfully onto Mycroft's knee, a petulant scowl on his face. “I'm not a silly child, Mycroft.”

He smiled and ruffled Sherlock's hair. “I never said you were.”

Sherlock looked up at him, head cocked to his right. “You don't look like a pirate, Mikey, even with the moustache.”

He held up his left hand. “Perhaps I need the hook, as well.”

Sherlock tore the moustache off; Mycroft yelped as the sticking gum was ripped off his lip. With a cheeky grin, Sherlock smacked the moustache onto his own face, raised the wooden sword, and proclaimed, “Off to the garage, to free my real pirate brother!” and tore off down the attic stairs.

Relieved, Mycroft couldn't help laughing out loud as he stood, dusted off his trousers, and headed down to lunch.


End file.
